Mockingbird, or, The Phantom's Angel
by Ariadne - Champion of Life
Summary: Moved from Musicals/Plays! Prolouge and Chapter 1 of my Christine Daae Autobiography. Goes mostly by Leroux, but a plot twist later. R/R please!
1. Prolouge

Mockingbird

Mockingbird

_The Phantom's Angel_

  
_Prologue_

  
My father's name was Charles. When I was just a little girl, he was my God. Since he adored my Maman, Lilith Anna Valerius, I wanted to be exactly like her.  
I often asked my Papa the story of how he and Maman met, especially after my Maman died of the consumption. It reminded me that some things stay stable and unchanged when the rest of my young world collapsed around me.   
  
My Papa was a wonderful violin player, turning simple folk tunes into angelic masterpieces, to my ears. It was through his playing that he met my Maman.  
  


When Papa was two and twenty, he was as poor as a church mouse. "Poorer even," he used to say when he began his story. I always thought that was silly, since what is poorer than a church mouse? However, I never contradicted my Papa because my Papa was always right. Even if he was not, he was a marvelous storyteller. He said that he loved music, and only music, before he met Maman. Papa told me that my Grandmother and Grandfather had been killed in a horse-and-buggy accident two years before that, and all the rest of his family had gotten sick or moved far away. That always made me sad for him, this Papa from long ago, before he was even a Papa, and people only called him Charles. However, I consoled myself by saying the good part was coming soon.  
  
Papa started playing the fiddle when he was five years old, seventeen years before he met Maman. His papa, my Grandfather, taught him how. When Grandfather and Grandmother died, Papa used to play his fiddle at fairs and put out an old hat he had found to collect money. He would play well-known folk songs, so that there was always a large crowd around him singing, and when he was done, they'd clap and laugh merrily and then leave a little money for giving them their merriment.

  
It was one of these times when he was playing _The Resurrection of Lazarus_, his favorite song. There was the usual crowd around him, clapping their hands, but no one was singing, for no one could do his violin playing justice. All of the sudden, there was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard singing the tune with his violin. Papa swore people looked heavenward when they heard that voice, because they thought an angel was with them.  
  
He was just as convinced when he stood upon a wooden crate to see in the direction the voice was coming from. He saw an exquisite-looking girl singing with his violin playing. She looked like an angel. She was golden haired, with huge green eyes and lily-white skin that looked like velvet, yet she was tiny, no more than five feet tall. She obviously did not live around the provincial town they were in, Uppsala, because she looked like aristocracy. Not just because of her clothing and how she took care of herself, but in her bearing. Papa stared, but was awoken from his trance by chants of "Play! Play!" In his astonishment, he had frozen with the bow poised over the violin strings. He and the pretty girl finished the song to a flourish of applause, and twice as much money as he usually made. The pretty girl turned to another girl beside her and whispered something to her, looking at my Papa.  
  
Here Papa always said, "I am usually a brave man, but your Maman was so beautiful I was afraid to approach her!" I always laughed and said " You' re so silly, Papa!"  
  
Papa found the strength in him to approach her. At this point he would stand me up and pretended I was my Maman, and he bowed to me and introduced himself, saying "I am very impressed with your singing, miss," and he gazed into my eyes.  
  
Since I knew this story by heart, I would always giggle and say " Sir, my name is Lilith Anna Valerius, though I would prefer you call me Lilli. I am quite impressed with your violin playing as well." I would gaze back into his eyes, knowing all the while that he was thinking of how that first look told him he was in love with my Maman.  
  
My Maman as Papa soon learned, was a genuinely loving, sweet girl. She was twenty at the time, but because of her size, she looked sixteen. She looked after all seven of her younger brothers and sisters as if they were her own children. She was of aristocratic descent in Sweden, but her Mamma and Father moved to Brittany, France when they were married. Her Father was some form of duke in Sweden but had no way to prove it. Contrary to the archetype of high society, my Mama was very kind and not at all arrogant.  
  
Papa would never tell me about their courtship, no matter how much I begged. When I was younger, I was simply in love with faery and romance books. I wanted every winsome detail, but my Papa never told me. Even when I was older I would ask Mamma Valerius, my Grandmother, but she wouldn't tell me either. At this point in Papa's story, he would just say, "Mama's parents liked me so well that even though I was poor and she was rich, they let us marry."

  
Maman and Papa were married in a quiet ceremony in a Catholic Church in 1860. Papa did not want a big ceremony since the only people he could invite were his older brother, Owen, and his Scottish wife, Bonnie, newlyweds, and Papa's only living relatives. Maman invited only family and had one friend, Sophia, as her maid of honor, and the oldest male child, Tobias, two years younger than her, was best man.  
  
My Papa told me "With loving your Maman, I became the most caring man in the world; I loved everything and everyone in the world." This made me contented and happy, not just that my Papa was happy because of my Maman, but that he said many times that I had the same quality to bring happiness to him, and to others.  
  
He and Maman built a cottage a little north of Uppsala, where Papa had been born. Next door, in that little village, lived my Uncle Owen and Aunt Bonnie, as I have said, my Papa's only living relatives.   
  
Since my Papa had become so happy, he said, he was only happier when, in January 1861, Mama announced she was going to have a baby. Papa would try to tell me this part in turn pretending to be Mama, and then himself.  
  
"Your Maman had a coy way of telling me good news," Papa said. "When she came to me she said 'Charles,'" he would say in a high pitched voice. I giggled.  
  
"No, Papa, she said it like _this_," I would say, then put on my most coy tone and say "Charles,"  
  
"Why, you sound just like your Maman!" Papa would say. "By now I knew that tone of hers, and I said, 'Yes, my love?' Your Maman's eyes lit up with excitement, and she said,"  
  
"'We're going to have a child!'" I would say, excited.  
  
"Yes! I stood from my chair, dropping my book, then I sat back down again. I was completely astonished! I said 'What?...When?...How...? Well, not how, but when?'"  
  
"'In August.'" I would reply, playing the part of my very own mother well. Then I would laugh, and Papa would take me in his arms and twirl me around the room, as he did with my mother not so many years before, but it seemed like forever ago.  
  
"But this baby wasn't me, was it, Papa?" I would ask, prompting the story to go on.  
  
"No, it wasn't. We began making plans for the baby, and we were so happy that we would finally have a child." Then Papa would say about how he and Maman prepared anxiously for the baby.   
  
In June, Papa said, Maman had a baby. It was a boy, and his name was Alexander Charles. The doctors told Papa that Maman had a very hard time giving birth to baby Alex, and so she would never be able to have any more children. Alex was rather sick for a baby, because he was born so early. "This meant he would cry and cry and there was nothing we could do for him," Papa would say gravely. I nodded.   
  
"Your Papa, rest his soul, loved that sweet baby," Mamma Valerius said when I asked her, at fifteen, what had happened to Alex. "The child was so bright, so happy, and so handsome," Mamma Valerius said. "He was only around six months. . .yes, six months, because it was in December. . .that the poor sweet child died." I was shocked when Mamma told me this. Papa never told me that. He said that Alex was gone by that Christmas.  
  
"Your Maman and Papa loved that little boy so much, they were completely heartbroken when the little boy died," Mamma Valerius said, crossing herself. "Your Maman, the determined child she was, and always had been, was intent on conceiving again. Your Papa wasn\rquote t sure if he could love another baby as much as he loved Alex. He tried to talk her out of it, and he said the doctors said it might be fatal to her.   
  
"'Mamma,' Lilli said, 'I don't care. I want another child.' Your Maman wanted a child with her whole heart. She had always loved the weak and helpless. She once found a baby kitten, your Missy, and the thing could not have *picked* a better mother..."  
  
Papa said that Aunt Bonnie had conceived a child by then. Maman would go over there constantly to talk to Bonnie. "It was as if she were trying to have the experience of having a child through Bonnie," Papa said sadly.  
  
"Your mother, the stubborn girl she was, conceived again the February of 1863. She wanted a baby that would *live* , she said, one that she could care for and nurture." Papa would say quietly. I never asked him what had happened to Alex, because whenever he told me this part of the story, it seemed like he was in a trance. He would stare straight ahead of himself, remembering the stubborn, determined, caring woman that was my Maman. It was almost as if he could see her standing there before him.   
  
"Your Papa had grown weary after Alex's sudden death. He loved the first baby so much that he wasn't sure if he could love another child so much. Most of all, he feared for Lilli's health. Her physical health was in jeopardy, first of all. It might have proven fatal for her to birth another child. He had also seen her emotional state after losing Alexander. She had been broken up for months. If she lost this one too, and survived herself, what kind of emotional torture would she put herself through?" Mamma told me.  
  
Meanwhile, on August 17th, Bonnie gave birth to a healthy baby girl. My Maman, although she was with child herself, helped birth the baby. She was named the child's Godmother, and my Papa her Godfather. The girl had her mother's face, and her father's evergreen eyes. They named the girl, who was to become one of the closest friends and greatest adversaries I would ever have, Sasmoe Lilth.  
  
"The day your mother went into labor," Papa recalled, "I was so nervous! She woke me up early to go get Bonnie to tell her that the baby was coming. I ran over to your Aunt Bonnie's house to tell her, waking both Bonnie and Owen up in the process. When I told Bonnie what was happening, she turned as white as a sheet. 'It's too early,' she said, although she was getting up and ready to leave as she said that. She rushed out the door leaving Owen and I standing there. Your Uncle Owen looked at me, still half-asleep, and said 'What...?'"  
  
My Aunt Bonnie locked the door to the master bedroom in my Papa's house. My Papa waited for what seemed like ages. My Uncle Owen came after what seemed like days, but was really only about an hour. "I paced and paced...would Lilli be all right? Would the baby be all right?" Papa would say, getting up and demonstrating for me. Then he would launch into a silly thing that always made me laugh, and that he probably made up. I don't think he was actually thinking "What if the doctors don't come out alive?! What if the bed does not come out alive??! What if...." Then he would pretend the doctor had opened the door in front of him. "Thank goodness you're okay!" he would say, pretending to shake the doctor by the shoulders. I think, in retrospect, that he did this just to make me laugh. I was only a little girl when he told it to me.   
  
"But then, the doctor grinned. He said the words that changed my life forever. He said 'You have a daughter.' Then he said 'Your wife is perfectly fine,' but 'You have a daughter,' are the words that would make me the happiest man to ever walk the earth.  
  
"I walked into the bedroom and saw your mother sitting up in bed, she was a little tired and her hair was plastered to her face with sweat, but she was glowing. She beamed at the tiny bundle in her arms. 'Charles,' she said, 'We have a daughter.' 'I know,' I said, for lack of anything better to say. 'Wh-what shall we name her?' I asked."  
  
"How about Lilli, in honor of her mother?" Aunt Bonnie suggested.  
  
"No, that would get a little confusing." Papa laughed. "How about Anna, in honor of her Grandmother?"  
  
"May we come in?" my Uncle Owen, accompanied by Mamma Valerius, a priest, and holding baby Sasmoe. " I took the liberty of getting her Grandmother and a priest. And," Owen said, looking at the three-month-old in his arms, "I knew Sasmoe would want to come and see her little cousin."  
  
"Have you decided on a name?" the priest, Father James, asked gently.  
  
"No, Father, but I think I've got it." My Maman said, a still wider smile growing on her face. "Kirsten-Anna. I've always loved the name Kirsten."  
  
"I think it's perfect," Papa said. Everyone agreed. "What do you think?" he asked the tiny bundle in Maman's arms. The baby gurgled. "I think she likes it," my Papa said, laughing.   
  
Father John said the baptism rights. "I christen you Kirsten-Anna Daaé."  
  
  
_And this is where my story begins._


	2. Chapter One: Sasmoe and Kirsten

Chapter One: Sasmoe and Kirsten

Chapter One: _Sasmoe and Kirsten  
  
_

  
"Kirsten, _chére_, take your shawl with you!" Maman called after me. That is how one of my earliest memories starts. I was three years old, and it was mid-August. In my rush to get next door I had left it on my chair at the kitchen table. I walked back inside and Maman handed it to me, kissing me on the cheek. I can always remember my mother's smell more than her face. It was rose-cinammony, yet more than that. "I swear you would forget your _tete_ were it not attached!" she murmured to me. I giggled. "Tell Aunt Bonnie that I'd like her to come over here if she's done with the morning chores."

  
"Yes, Maman," I said, kissing her on the cheek and heading out of the door. The door swung shut with a loud bang behind me. "_Hejsan_, Missy!" I said to my tiny grey striped-white-and orange cat as I rubbed her head. She purred back at me. 

  
I walked up to my Uncle Owen and Aunt Bonnie's house, next door to my own. It was not even noontime yet and already the children of the small village community were racing around, boys pulling little girls' hair, girls whispering to each other. The sky was a bright clear Swedish blue, the verdant trees jutting into the sky like knives. I could smell autumn coming in the air, a crisp smell. I swung open the door and walked right in, knowing already that I was welcome. My Aunt Bonnie, the prettiest woman in the world to me, besides my Maman, smiled at me.

  
"Hello, Kirsten," she said in her slight Scottish accent. "I'm afraid Sasmoe is still getting dressed upstairs—"

  
"Kirsten, I'm ready!" Sasmoe yelled, bounding down her wooden stairs and making quite a clatter. Aunt Bonnie rolled her eyes.

  
"That's my Sasmoe," she grinned. "Hello, dear, don't forget your shoes!" she called as Sasmoe and I bounded out the door. Sasmoe grinned at me.

  
"Oh, yeah." she said. 

  
"Oh, Auntie Bonnie, Maman told me to tell you that she'd like to see you," I called as I entered the house again. 

  
"Thank you, Kirsten," Aunt Bonnie called back. Just then, someone picked me up by the waist and swung me around. I squealed with delight.

  
"How's my favorite niece?" my Uncle Owen asked, putting me down on the floor.

  
"Uncle O-wen," I said, drawling the 'o', "I'm your only niece!"

  
"But you're still my favorite," Uncle Owen said, grinning at me. "And here comes my favorite daughter!"

  
"Papa, you're so silly!" Sasmoe said, laughing. "Come, Kirsten," she said, grabbing my wrist tightly.

  
"Sasmoe, Kirsten! Remember not to go into the lake! You'll catch your death!" called Aunt Bonnie as we raced toward a glen of trees. 

  
"We won't, Mama!" lied Sasmoe as we ran. We ran past the village children, who were casting glances at us as we ran by. Some of the girls were already forming cliques, something I would mostly be left out of for the rest of my life. Sasmoe pushed the tall green trees' branches, smelling earthy and pine, out of the way to get to our favorite spot...a small lake entirely encompassed by trees. The lake reflected perfectly the flawless cloudless sky and green trees. The lake was shallow as lakes go, so it was entirely safe to play in. Today, however, it was an unseasonably cool summer day after Sasmoe's fourth birthday. Sasmoe took off her shoes and socks and waded into the pond, shivering.

  
"Sasmoe, your Mama said you'll catch your death!" I chided from the shore. Sasmoe rolled her brilliant green eyes exactly like her Mama and splashed me. "Oh...!" I said, wiping the water off of my skirt.

  
"Honestly, Kirsten, do you believe everything your mother tells you?" Sasmoe called.

  
"Well...yes." I said dubiously. I eyed her. "Don't you?" Sasmoe laughed.

  
"Well, since she's the one who told me that the goblin under my bed would get me if I didn't go to bed when she told me to, no!" she said. 

  
"Oh," I said, tilting my head to the side, thinking if my Maman had ever told me about goblins under my bed before... No, probably not, I thought. If anyone told me about goblins it would have been my Papa. I grinned to myself at this; thinking about the goblins he said guarded the shores of this particular lake. "Well, she might be right about this," I said, putting my hand up to shield my eyes against the sun.

  
"It's probably just so I don't have to change my clothes when I get home. Mama does get tired of washing clothes," Sasmoe said, tilting her head to the side, her straight dark blonde hair falling past her shoulders. Her pantaloons were thoroughly soaked now. Thank goodness she had taken off her shoes.

  
"Can't we play make-believe instead?" I pleaded. 

  
"Okay!" said Sasmoe. She waded back out of the water. "What are we going to make believe we are, though?" 

  
"Um...I think we should pretend we are...faeries!" I said, wide-eyed, smiling. "And we can fly!"

  
"But we just did that yesterday," Sasmoe complained. "Let's pretend we're singers instead! Rich opera singers in Paris or Italy!"

  
I inwardly was a little annoyed that Sasmoe got to pick what we were going to do again, but it was hardly a problem because she always had good ideas, and besides I liked the idea of being an opera singer. In fact, that is what I wanted to do when I was older, other than have a baby. I always wanted a baby of my very own, even as a very small child. My Maman always said I was the mere petite, or little mother of the family. Sasmoe was dripping wet as she walked up to me. She pulled off her pantaloons and laid them out to dry in the sun. 

  
"Where should we live?" I asked Sasmoe.

  
"Paris!" Sasmoe breathed. Other than our little town of Uppsala, we knew about Paris the best. My Maman, along with my Papa, was a wonderful storyteller, and she had lived in Paris much of her life. She taught me French everyday, and I was amazed at the beautiful musical quality of the flowing French language. 

  
"Oh, yes!" I exclaimed. "We are opera singers in Paris!" 

  
"Rich opera singers," corrected Sasmoe. 

  
I secretly wondered if it _mattered_ very much that we were rich or not, but I agreed to Sasmoe's claim that we were rich opera singers. She was always rich in all of our make-believe things, even yesterday when we had been faeries, she was the Queen of the Faeries. With that I spun a magical tale of our make-believe lives as rich opera singers in Paris. I inherited the storytelling gene from my parents. I always made up the story and Sasmoe always put it into action, which I was too cautious to do, since I saw how much trouble it got her in!

  
"We are best friends, and sisters, named Charlotte," I said, pointing at myself, "and—"

  
"Mirabelle!" Sasmoe said.

  
"Mirabelle." I cleared my throat. "We have lived in Paris all our lives, and were orphaned when we were...um...seven. Our parents died in a horrible accident. Since we were so young, we don't really remember them. We have been street children since we can remember, singing to get food. One day, when we are sixteen, we find a well-dressed man who looks like he can give us money for food..."

  
I put on my sixteen-year-old Charlotte persona. "Please, monsieur, will you allow us to sing for you?" I asked the invisible man sweetly.

  
With that, Sasmoe and I sang a sweet folk song my Papa had taught us. Sasmoe threw her voice to pretend she was the man, whom we had named Robert.

  
"Mademoiselles, that was beautiful! I work for the Opera Company of Paris, would you please come join us?" Sasmoe said as low as she could, which was not very low considering she was only two and a girl.

  
"Oh, would we?" Sasmoe exclaimed to me. "Oh, Charlotte, let's!"

  
"Oh, yes, Mirabelle!" I exclaimed. We played on into the afternoon, our story becoming more and more elaborate. We ended up being married and having children, while still becoming the biggest opera stars in the whole world. I, of course, died in this make-believe. I always did. Sasmoe pretended to sob as she went to my "grave". Of course, I was sadly missed, but Sasmoe took my place in all of the operas I couldn't sing in, being dead and all. As Sasmoe attempted to finish an aria she made up, I pretended to grimace and cover my ears.

  
"Kirsten, you're dead, so you can't make fun of my singing." Sasmoe whined, crossing her arms in front of her. "Besides, I am going to be the best, richest, most beautiful opera star in the entire world when I grow up."

  
"I know," I said. "You've told me that several times. I was just pretending, anyway, I know you're a good singer. You are much better than I am. Not that that says anything."

  
Sasmoe looked at me. "And dead people don't talk, either!"

  
"Désolé." I said quietly. Sometimes I wondered if dying a tragic death in all the stories was worth it. I did like dying though, especially since Sasmoe would pretend to be my husband when I did die, and she would sob and sob. I wondered if someday I would have a husband that loved me a lot, that would sob when I died. I hoped so.

  
"Sasmoe Lilth!" my Aunt Bonnie called.

  
"Kirsten-Anna!" my Maman called.

  
"It must be time for supper." I said. Sasmoe was already halfway to her house. "SASMOE!" I called after her. Sasmoe came screeching back. I picked up her pantaloons and shoes.

  
"You forgot these." I said.

  
"Are they dry?" 

  
"_Yupp-ya_. I'll meet you after supper." I said, pulling my shawl close over my shoulders. I headed back to my house. I had known Sasmoe my whole life, all three years. She was my best friend in the world...somehow she understood me all of the time. She, like I, loved listening to stories and singing with my Papa. We even looked a bit alike, although her hair was darker than mine was and our eyes were different colors. People always thought we were sisters, and sometimes we pretended to be to some of the other village girls. They didn't like the close bond that Sasmoe and I had, and therefore we were left out of their play, their little cliques, a lot of the time. I wondered once if I had something about me that made cliques ostracize me...

  
I climbed the stairs to my door and opened it, the door that led to the foyer, which in turn led to the sitting room and the kitchen. My Maman was setting the table for dinner, I could hear the clink and clank of the china being pulled out of the cabinet and set on the table. However, I headed to the sitting room instead, knowing my Papa was home. He always went to the sitting room when he came home from working in town at a place where he gave music lessons. He was usually tired, but he was always happy to see me. I bounded into the sitting room and said "Hejsan, Papa. How was your day at work?" 

  
"Ah, little one, it was fine. But I missed you and your Maman all day." Papa said, looking up from the book he was reading and smiling warmly at me. Papa was a very handsome man with almost black-brown hair. However, what was remarkable about him was his incredible warmth, his joie de vivre. His clear blue eyes sparkled with love, not just for me, but for his whole life. He set his book down, and I took it as a gesture to have me come sit in his lap, which it was. I climbed up onto his lap and nestled myself there. My Papa was the most wonderful man on earth.

  
"Papa, before dinner, can you tell me a story?" I asked, looking up at him. He smiled down at me. 

  
"Yupp-ya, my little one." Papa said. I loved my Papa's stories. I looked forward to them every night. "Why don't I tell you the story of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music?" he asked. My eyes grew wide. I had never heard this story before.

  
"Oh, yes, Papa. Please!" I entreated him, though I knew it wasn't necessary.

  
"Little Lotte thought of everything and she thought of nothing." Papa began. I always thought this was an odd way to start a story. No 'once upon a time, far, far away' that usually started the stories my Papa told me. Perhaps that's why I believed it true… "Her name was Charlotte, but everyone called her Little Lotte. She was a bird of summer, soaring through the golden sunbeams, wearing a crown of summer flowers on her blonde curls…" I looked out the window at the sun setting behind the dagger-like trees, painting the sky brilliant oranges and reds. "Her soul was as clear, was as blue as her eyes." Papa said, leaning down and kissing me on the forehead. "She was affectionate and helpful to her mother, was always faithful to her doll," Papa continued, as I thought of the dolly that my mother made me upstairs on my bed. Her name was Belle. "She was kind to her friends and took good care of her pretty dress, red shoes, and violin. But she most of all loved, upon falling asleep, to hear the Angel of Music sing to her." Papa said. The Angel of Music played a part in all of my Papa's stories. 

  
"Tell me more about the Angel of Music, Papa, please," I pleaded. "I do so love to hear about the Angel."

  
"Every great musician is visited by the Angel at least once in their lives. Sometimes, like Lotte, he leans over their cradles, and that is why some boys of six can play the violin better than men of fifty. That is a wonderful thing, is it not?" I nodded. "Sometimes he doesn't come until later, because the children are naughty and they don't listen to their mothers." He warned. I nodded gravely. "Sometimes the Angel never, ever comes. Do you know why, Kirsten?"

  
"Because they are bad people?" I asked.

  
"Yes, because they are bad. If the Angel of Music has visited you, and others don't know it, people say you have genius, because they don't understand about the Angel. The Angel usually comes to them when they are sad and disenheartened, when they least expect him. Suddenly, they hear a most beautiful voice, and hear melodies and singing that only an angel could make."

  
"Papa," I began cautiously, I had never asked this before, "Have you ever heard the Angel of Music?" My Papa looked at first surprised. He didn't expect this. Then his smile grew sadder.

  
"No, little one. I never have heard the Angel of Music," he said sorrowfully. But then his expression grew cheerful, and he smiled again at me, kissing the top of my head. "But one day, my Little Kirsten, you shall hear him. When I go to heaven, I will send him to you, so that you may be the greatest singer in the whole world." He said quietly. I smiled, feeling like Little Lotte myself. Perhaps Papa was the Angel of Music. He was such a good fiddler.

  
"What became of Little Lotte, Papa?" I asked, turning my thoughts back to the story.

  
"Little Lotte sang. She loved to sing, and others loved to hear her sing. She brought her sunshine to other people by singing to them. She made everyone happy. She went to Paris when she was a young woman and auditioned for the Opera, and she made it, because of the Angel of Music. The Angel continued to teach her throughout her whole life, and Lotte was a very happy girl. She met a wonderful young man that her Maman and Papa approved of and they got married."

  
"Did she live happily ever after?"

  
"Yes, Kirsten, she lived happily ever after for the rest of her days. Now I think it's time for supper." He said, looking up. My Maman was standing in the doorway, smiling down at us. I climbed off my Papa's lap and I gave my Maman a hug.

  
"Come now, Kirsten, it's time for supper." 

  
"Yes Maman."


End file.
